Page 8 of The Wrong Billionaire
“So… you’re not married yet?” I tease. “I thought some lucky woman would have captured you by now.”
He snorts. “Nope. Managed to avoid the noose so far.”
“Not dating either?” I already know the answer. I’ve been very thorough with my research.
He shakes his head. “It’s hard to weed out the fortune hunters.”
I’ve watched the family’s meteoric rise over the years, and I’d guessed it would be a problem for all the siblings. It’s why I have to be very careful with my proposal.
“Are you dating again?” he asks.
I roll my eyes. “Absolutely not. Breaking up with Cory was very traumatic.”
He frowns. “Oh, really?”
I trail a finger through a drop of condensation on the table, thinking about the look on Marcus’s face when he realized Cory had cheated on me. I wish I hadn’t mentioned to him that the same thing happened with Tim and Richard. I might think to myself that I’m not good enough to keep a man, but I shouldn’t tell guys that.
I look back up at Caesar. “I’ve tried to put myself out there again, but I’ve had some horrendous experiences. Tinder sucks.”
He looks alarmed. “Oh God, yes. You shouldn’t go anywhere near dating apps.”
“Well, the only guys I meet are married men with kids, and I’m definitely not going down that road.”
He laughs. “Yeah, I get that.”
It’s time. I take a deep breath and hold his gaze. “Um… I’d like to ask you something.”
He lifts a brow. “Oh?”
“Okay. Well. I’m thirty-three now, and I’ve decided… I just don’t want to play the dating game anymore. But… I love children. And I want a baby.” There, I’ve said it. I tremble at what I’m about to do.
He studies my face. I can see him trying to work out where this is going. “That’s understandable. And you’d make a great mother.”
“Thank you. I’ve been thinking about it for months. And finally, I booked an appointment at the fertility clinic, to talk about a sperm donor.”
His eyebrows rise. “Oh?”
“They told me there’s at least a two-year waiting list for single women.”
“Wow. That’s harsh.”
“Yeah, it’s much longer than I thought. The thing is, if I have to wait two years, I’ll be thirty-five. And would you believe it; they call that ‘Advanced Maternal Age’ or… wait for it… a geriatric pregnancy!”
He tries not to laugh, and fails. “Shit. I’m sorry. It’s not funny.”
“Itisfunny, but it’s also horrific.”
“Aw, Wren. Women have babies after thirty-five all the time.”
“That may be, but I don’t want to be a geriatric mother.”
His expression softens. “Yeah, I get that.”
“The thing is… the clinic said my best option is to approach someone I know. A friend. Someone I trust. And ask him if he’ll… donate.”
My face heats, although he probably can’t see it beneath the mask.
He stares at me. His lips part, but no words come out.
